Games
by kiwi-fruit-from-hell
Summary: Set Post Sex Kills, Spoilers up to House vs God. It all starts with a game of truth or dare, in which House tries to prise information out of Wilson. HOUSEWILSON SLASH. T for a couple of naughty words, nothing major.
1. Chapter 1

I think I've gotten back into writing mode now, but anyone who wants to know when/if something is going to be updated, or anything like that, this is my writing journal:kiwi-ficjournal dot livejournal dot comwhich contains things I have written, and of course will be updated as I write more, and gives me an oppertunity to let people know how progress is going. If you have questions about my writing, feel free to ask them over there, and also feel free to friend me is you're an LJ user. That out of the way, here is something I started as an excersise to get writing again but has, in my head, developed into quite a story. Spoilers for "Sex Kills" (Seaosn 2). Disclaimer: Do you see House pinning Wilson against a wall and smearing him with chocolate sauce? No? Ok, I guess I don't own the show then.

Enjoy this, and be safe in the knowledge that I have already started work on the second part of it!

* * *

"_Have you ever_?"

"Nope."

"_Truth or dare?"_

"Nope."

"_Spin the bottle?"_

Wilson grimaced, "I'm not that drunk." He took another swig of beer, before decisively setting it down.

House stared at him across the kitchen table, pizza box between them, and held his eyes. "My house, my rules." He declared. "And one of my top rules is when I'm bored, the guest has to entertain me."

"We could just watch a movie…" Wilson broke his gaze; all his energy for banter had run out.

"Nope." House grinned.

"Fine. Truth or dare. Without the dare part."

"So it's just truth? Jimmy, you should know I never lie anyway."

Wilson smiled inwardly at House calling him "Jimmy". He hated it really, from anyone else he always hated it, but House's accompanying smirk always made him warm up. "Then you'll probably win."

House went first. "Why did you decide to stay with me?"

"You know."

"Yeah, but I want you to say it."

"Because there is no one else I would want to stay with." House fixed him with a steely glare, and Wilson gave up all hope of getting out of tonight with his dignity…with what remained of his dignity after finding his wife had been cheating on him. "Because I doubt I would be welcomed by anyone else."

"How many friends do you have?" House asked, again fully knowing the answer.

"Hey, I answered one question, now it's your turn." He thought for a second, dramatising the process with "hmmm"s and "eerrrr"s. "Do you like Cameron? Wait, wait, let me rephrase – do you _want_ Cameron?"

"My god, is this a slumber party? Just a second, let me get my pink jammies!" Wilson tapped his fingers on the table top. "No. Her technical aesthetics are flawless. She's too…perfect, to be sexy."

"K." Wilson shook his head and smiled a little.

"What?"

"'Too perfect to be sexy'? What the hell does that mean?"

House laughed. "She'd be boring…ok, she'd be fun for a limited time only. But when someone looks so perfect they get by on their appearance. They don't develop any skills."

Wilson laughed back. "Same as Chase."

"Oh I don't know…his oral fixation suggests a certain love for things being in his mouth. I bet he's got some real good techniques. Jesus, Wilson, you giggle like a little girl!"

"Well you sound like a creepy old man…did we really just discuss if Chase could give a good blowjob?"

"Just have some more to drink." House leant over the table and nudged Wilson's beer back to its owner. "My turn to ask a question…what is your worst memory?"

"Shit, House, you could get some real bad answers if you used that one irresponsibly. My worst memory is…when everyone in my second grade class followed me around calling me "freak" for 4 and a half days."

"Aww."

"Shut up."

"That's not your worst memory."

"It was horrible." Wilson protested.

"I'm sure, but it was not your worst memory. I know you; your worst memory is going to be something you feel guilty about."

"Fine. My worst memory is of one month ago next Tuesday, when I realised that there was no way my marriage with Julie would work, and I had put her, and myself, through it all for no reason."

"What made you realise that?"

"You'll have to wait your turn to ask that one. I answered your first question. What precisely did you mean by _that kind of a friend_ and _deeper errors_?"

"What?" House looked closely, and saw Wilson's eyes were beginning to glaze over. He was leaving sober land. "I mean exactly what you think I meant." _This is true, if you are in fact thinking what I think you are; which is probably what you are thinking if in fact it is your knee that has been pressed with more than casual closeness against mine all night. Or something to that effect. _House shook his head with a soft grunt, in an effort to clear away the bad grammar and run on sentences.

"What did you realise?"

Wilson sighed. "I knew you were going to ask that."

"Well then you should have an answer all prepared."

"I realised…no. I'm not telling you. I guess I lose the game."

"My house, my rules." House repeated. "You aren't out of the game yet. Answer the question."

"Well I quit. Let's just watch a movie, relax or something." Wilson abruptly rose from the table and walked in the living room.

House braced himself, then followed, bringing two fresh beers with him. Two bottles were held between the fingers on his one spare hand, and he wondered for a second if he would be able to pick up the pretzel bowl as well, but decided against it. Picking up his cane from its resting place on the side counter, he could see Wilson through the door running a hand over his face, his shoulders shuddering briefly. They watched the movie – something about a volcano, or earthquake, or something like that – House wasn't really paying attention, in silence. He ran over thoughts in his head, processing information and always coming up with the same, vaguely disturbing answer. The fact that they were on a large couch but still sat in contact, that Wilson flinched when House reached across him for the remote and let out a shaky breath when he moved back fuelled House's theories. When the thought had crossed his mind earlier…it had been an idea, a whim, which had grown roots at Wilson's shocked reaction. His _hurt_ reaction.

"Ok, what was it?" House poked Wilson in the arm.

"Hmm?"

"What did you realise?"

"House, will you just drop it?"

"No. And I'm not going to until you tell me. I'm also going to operate on my personal theory to see if I get any definite response."

"Meaning what?"

House brought his face in close to Wilson's, so their lips were almost touching, and looked into his eyes. "Oh I don't know…" He didn't move.

Wilson held his gaze.

House pushed his body closer.

Wilson sharply drew in a breath.

House winked.

"I realised…I realised I wanted to do this." Wilson closed the space between their lips.


	2. Chapter 2

House pulled back, breathing heavily, with his heart racing, pounding so much it felt as though his chest was about to crack open. He stared at Wilson, watching as his eyes fluttered open. "What the…why did you do that?"

"I thought you…I mean…_you_ wanted to know!"

"Words would have passed on the message just as effectively." House dryly, shuffling back to his end of the couch.

"Oh and that's why you decided manipulate me by throwing yourself at me? Either you knew, or you had no idea and just happen to enjoy close bodily contact." Wilson felt sick. The butterflies that had been in his stomach sprouted razors on the end of their wings. Anger welled up in him when he recalled House's taste, though at House or himself he could not tell.

"I suspected. I didn't think you actually…I mean, I didn't think you would…"

Wilson laughed harshly. "Don't tell me that you, of all people, actually have a problem with this."

"I think most people would have a problem with their best friend's tongue being in their mouth." House's head span a little bit then. His best friend had just kissed him…Wilson had just kissed him. Lips. Wilson's lips, his lips. Wilson's hips…no, wait, why his mind going there all of a sudden? He felt a faint flush start to creep over his face and broke eye contact. _First the slumber party, now I can't look at him. It's official; I'm a thirteen year old girl._

"Right, of course." Wilson stood and tried to walk out past House, who thwacked his cane against Wilson's chest. He turned to go the other way and his foot collided with a leg of the coffee table. "Fuck!" His beer had fallen and was rapidly spilling out all over the floor. He bent down and hit his head on the corner of the table.

He heard a soft laugh behind him. "Screw you, House."

"You wish." He chuckled louder. He couldn't think of any other way to react. This was ridiculous, a completely absurd situation.

"It's not funny!" Wilson rose again, this time hitting his knee. "What the hell did I ever do to you?" he yelled at the coffee table, his shoulders shaking, half way between laughing and crying.

House hauled himself out of the chair and stood behind Wilson, who appeared to have turned into a quivering wreck in the middle of his living room. He laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly, "Take a breath, Jimmy."

Wilson shrugged his shoulders, a weak protest at House's proximity. House just squeezed briefly. Humiliation washed over him, looking down at the spilled beer now forming a dark patch on the red carpet, his shoes haphazard by the door where he had slipped them off as he came in, his jacket slung over his suitcase, still by the door. Above his suitcase, which contained the few things that seemed relevant to his life, was the mirror – a silver circle in an angular frame. He could see himself, trembling with hunched posture and streaks down his face which suddenly alerted to him that he _was_ crying. This was what he amounted to; the bags, the pathetic person in the mirror. And the warmth from the hand on his shoulder. "I'm alright," he whispered.

"Yeah, I know." House whispered in return.

Wilson felt House shifting behind him, and heard his hand rubbing against his thigh. He hadn't heard the rattle of a Vicodin bottle since House stood up, and now they'd been here…Wilson didn't know how long, but his own muscles were starting to stiffen so House must be in pain. He peeled open his eyes, not that he had been aware that they were closed. Salty deposits irritated in the corners and he rubbed them away. "House?"

"Yeah?" His breath ruffled the hairs on the back of Wilson's neck.

The house suddenly seemed so quiet. "I…ok, I think we should sit down now." The hairs ruffled again on the back of his neck when House exhaled in a short, silent laugh.

They sat at the kitchen table, facing each other with the pizza box between just as it had been earlier. It seemed a lot colder now. House spoke first. "You could have said something sooner. You should have."

"Yeah, 'cus who would want to delay going through this?"

"So…you've been through numerous-" House raised his eyebrows as he wrapped his tongue around the word "numerous" – "relationships with women, and now you've decided that you're gay?"

"I haven't decided I just…it's become something I'm interested in exploring."

"With me?"

"With you."

"Ok." It all felt fake. Filling in the lines that were expected, asking the predictable questions…not saying what you wanted to. Not saying the thing that was constantly pushing to the front of your mind, the one sentence that forever sat on the tip of your tongue. "You realise how much this could screw up our friendship?" _What? I wasn't even thinking that._

"I know; it would be a risk. I don't even know if I want to do anything, but the feelings are there." Wilson sounded like he was reading from a script. "Do you…feel anything?"

"I don't know." _Don't lie, Greg._

"Ok." Wilson laughed uneasily. "This is awkward."

"Yeah." They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"I think there's something wrong with me. I mean, sure I might be gay butI_ know _what you're like and still want to be with you? That's just messed up."

"Can't argue there. Of course it's not like I relish the idea of dating the man who hasn't been able to be faithful in a relationship for longer than it takes most people to consider a proposal."

"Yeah, but admit it, you'd love to tell Cameron that you're gay." Wilson smiled, and House smiled back.

"I must be tired – it's actually starting to sound appealing."

"It's like…" Wilson checked his watch, "2 a.m. Sleep now?"

"Yeah and look…we're friends. Probably best to leave it at that for now."

Wilson slept on the couch, under rough blankets and on a too-soft pillow. He knew he would wake intermittently throughout the night; that is if I ever got to sleep in the first place. House slept in his bed, familiar sheets and pillows, the same ones he sunk into every night, and just like every night, he could not sleep. Usually his leg kept him tense for a couple of hours, now he replayed the events of the evening, going over and over the conversations. Not one word was true.


	3. Chapter 3

Games – Part Three

_Click. Click._ House groaned and rolled over, pulling his blankets up around his chin. How fast did that man's toenails grow? He'd been keeping count; Wilson clipped them every other morning. Perhaps it was indicative of OCD. House smirked to himself as a clinic patient from the previous day floated into his mind – a young woman who was convinced she had OCD because she washed her hands every time she went to the bathroom. Some people should not be allowed to mix in society. House opened his eyes and, feeling a huge weight on his eyelids, closed them again. If this was a good day, he could get another 12 minutes sleep before the persistent wurr of the blow dryer drew him fully into the waking world.

House settled back to enjoy the remaining peace, soaking up the warmth of his body that trapped by the sheets and making the most of the simple, fuzzy world before his mind had kicked in and letting his leg wake up. His eyes shot open. The fuzzy world disappeared with a sharp intake of breath. Last night. Last night _with Wilson_. He groped within his mind for a second to assure himself it had been real and not part of a deeply disturbing concoction cooked up by his subconscious mind. The feel of Wilson's lips on his own, the taste, the warmth, it all lingered at the back of his mind and destroyed any protests House might have made as to the reality of the situation.

He stared at the ceiling. It wasn't even – little flakes of paint, or was it plaster, were only just defying gravity and the colour had faded to not-quite-white. The blow dryer started for a moment, and then stopped. There was a knock at his door and Wilson's head poked around without waiting for a response, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"Gonna be late if you don't get up soon."

House groaned again, but Wilson had already left, gone back to making himself pretty for the day.

As had become the norm, House took the halt of the blow dryer, the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut and Wilson scuffling around in the kitchen as his cue to haul himself out of bed. Discarding his t-shirt and pyjama pants, House pulled fresh clothes for the day (ironed by Wilson, he was sure, though his room-mate refused to admit to this fact) from his cupboard and dumped them on his bed. He paused to dry-swallow his first Vicodin of the day. Dressing was a slow process. House pulled one pant leg on, his right, while balancing putting his weight onto his undamaged leg. He then sat on the edge of the bed the pull other one on. This was his morning ritual, every morning, always the same. The late night before made this morning easier; there was still at least a small amount of Vicodin in his system. He could smell pancakes.

Wilson passed the maple syrup across the table to House after he served the pancakes. Apart from muttered "good mornings" nothing had been said, and though that wasn't unusual – after all, House was hardly a morning person – it felt awkward. The silence had an expectant presence. Wilson slowly ran his finger around the ring that had been left of the table from a beer bottle. The air still smelt faintly of pizza, underneath the scent of pancakes. House was attacking his breakfast with aplomb, after thoroughly dousing them with syrup (which he had informed Wilson one morning was the only real way to eat them), and Wilson followed suit though without the poise, confidence or attacking. So really, Wilson just ate his breakfast staring at the table to avoid eye contact.

House took his plate to the sink and it clattered in, hitting cutlery and other china. He went to leave the kitchen when Wilson's spoke, his voice seeming loud, though unsure, breaking into the silence.

"It's your day for the washing up."

House turned. "You lie."

"It's Wednesday. Wednesday is your day."

"I think you'll find, after the recent incident when I may or may not have skipped _my_ day, that Wednesday has become your day." House stated as a matter of fact.

"I can't cook unless the cooking implements are clean." Wilson stared at House, calmly looking up at him from his seat at the table, unmoving.

"Are you threatening to withhold food?"

Wilson nodded.

House laughed. "Bastard. I taught you too well." His smile was genuine. Things were still as close to normal as they ever were.


	4. Chapter 4

Games – Part Four.

House watched Wilson pushing the chicken stir fry around on his plate; his fork grated against the ceramic in a sharp, piercing sound and he set the plate down. He had been quiet every evening for the past week, and "unavailable" at every lunch time. Conversation had been stilted, the simple answering of questions usually with no more than a grunt of agreement or a short, obligatory laugh. House hated small talk, had no idea how to keep it up, but the silence was unbearable. He spent the evening commenting on TV, on the food, talking about patients and all the while it was like Wilson wasn't even there. He was simply delivering a dull, irrelevant monologue. Things had picked up with the poker game. Alcohol was flowing and people were around to act as buffers for any awkwardness. House fell back into his usual pattern of friendly mockery, and Wilson had responded as expected. Soon, Esther and cards had taken over, and House allowed the memory of Wilson's lips against his to slip from his mind.

Hell, he even started playing up to it like he used to before it actually _was_ something. Waggling a cigar in Wilson's face in that exact manner could only be interpreted one way, even if its intention was to gain knowledge of his hand of cards. The next morning had come around and they were both exhausted, but elated in their own ways. House had saved the kid, solved Esther's case, seen Wilson smiling and punching the air in triumph at his poker win, and Wilson had won the poker tournament and seen House content at his own victory. 7am and half asleep, they had gone home together making juvenile jokes about penises (the best kind).

House had fallen against him as they went into the apartment, just for a second. His face was flushed and his mouth ever so slightly open. Wilson could feel his breath on his neck and the warmth radiating from his body. He held his gaze for a moment too long.

Now it was evening and mostly uneaten meals were on the coffee table, positioned so not to be knocked off by feet, the smell of vegetables, spice and meat cloyed the air. House slipped into a trance, focusing on the monotony of the television and jumped when Wilson's voice snapped.

"So we're just not gonna talk about it at all then?" It was the fifth time he had opened his mouth to speak in the past 25 minutes, and the only time that any sound had come out.

"Oh. I figured…I didn't think we needed to." He didn't need to ask what.

"Right. Of course not." Wilson turned up the TV and folded his arms.

"Hey, now." House found himself inexplicably brushing his hand against his friends arm. As soon as the uncharacteristic nature of the action struck him, it was too late to undo and he had no option but to feel uncomfortable, "Is there anything else you want to say?"

"Don't bullshit me, House. Like I don't feel stupid enough already."

_Ah, right. That's why I don't bother being nice._ "Fine then. If you aren't gonna talk, stop bringing it up." House pulled himself out of his seat, picked up his and Wilson's half eaten meal and took the dishes to the kitchen. He tipped the remains into the garbage and dropped the plates into the sink with a short burst of water. A crack appeared on the edge of one, but House ignored it and went back to his seat on the couch. Instead of sitting on the middle cushion, as was his custom, he positioned himself to the far left.

"I'll set up some more apartment viewings tomorrow."

"You don't have to."

"Well I don't want to stay here forever."

House blinked, hurt. He was hurt and more importantly, surprised at being hurt. He didn't want Wilson to move out, but he knew he would at some point. No, House realised what his problem here was; Wilson wasn't just moving out, House had driven him out. "Fair enough." He said, dejected.

Wilson sighed, shook his head and stood up, striding to the bathroom. "I'm gonna get ready for bed."

House snapped. "What the hell do you want from me?"

He thought he heard Wilson mutter as he left the room. "Perhaps some sign that you actually give a crap."

Wilson kicked out his legs in a lame attempt to untwist the duvet and cover his feet. His toes twitched. He wasn't tired – he had slept for several hours this morning then went to work in the afternoon, just to keep a few bits and pieces ticking over. Even if he was tired, he doubted sleep would come easily tonight. His mind raced in the circles that had become so familiar over the past few months. He replayed everything House had said to him, every possible interpretation of every sign and realised, with a sharp feeling rising in his stomach, that he hadn't been given a flat out rejection. Damn it, Wilson didn't want this. Back and forth, back and forth with feelings and thoughts and fantasies, and all he wanted was to curl up at home with his wife. Wilson rolled his eyes in the dark. His wife, whom he hadn't given as much thought to as one might expect considering the circumstance. His wife, whom he had barely cried over. His wife, who a part of him had been secretly relieved to find was cheating on him. It simplified things. It made everything hurt like hell, but it wasn't his responsibility to do the right thing, to try anymore. It wasn't his guilt.

House tensed his whole body then relaxed it, in a lame attempt to make his thigh stop aching to move. He pushed one hand down under the covers and slowly ran it up and down the offending leg, pressing as hard as he could take, feeling every inch of the scar through thin cotton. A part of him still shone with elation at solving Esther's case, it was a warmth that would radiate for many days to come, but it was tainted by Wilson. House couldn't understand the sudden change. Things had been awkward, then better and now suddenly so much worse again. House barely allowed himself to admit it inside his own head, but his mind had been flicking back to Wilson suggestion that they explore the possibility of a relationship between them and it was becoming less and less unpleasant with every passing moment. And now he was actually scared that Wilson might leave. House rolled over and sighed. _Head-fuck city._


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry, I've had this for a couple of days and haven't been able to sign in. This is the end for now, but I might come back and add bits depending on what happens in canon.

* * *

"I suppose you haven't found an apartment yet, then?" House looked quizzically at Wilson as he pushed through the door and dumped his briefcase on the floor like he was angry with it.

"No." He stalked into the kitchen.

House heard pots and pans clinging and clattering. He tipped his head, the back of the couch against his neck, and dragged his hands across his face. He had two options here – let Wilson get on with it, or go and try to make peace. The second option was made it more likely he would keep his only friend. Of course, there was a third option, but House pretended it hadn't even crossed his mind. "Fuck it" he muttered, heaving out of the chair and padding across the carpet in his socks.

House leant on the kitchen counter. He opened his mouth and closed it again, truly unsure of how this situation was supposed to work. Wilson shot him a glance that could have been fiery, but had weakened to its last embers. "You don't have to move out."

"I shouldn't imagine it's very comfortable for you to have me living here."

"Keep your hands to yourself, and it's all good." House winced at the look that crossed Wilson's features. He took a step closer and laid his hand on his arm, tentatively, "I like having you living here."

Wilson loved that House showed him those little vulnerable moments, and he knew there was no one else he did it to. He hated that House would only show him in order to fix something, and only when it served House himself. He shrugged the hand off. "I don't."

"Then why don't you go to a goddamn hotel?" House went back to his position in the living room.

House didn't think he could take another night like this. He was no stranger to insomnia, but found it was a lot less fun when what was on his mind was so important, when he spent the time lying in bed, blue eyes focused on the ceiling and feeling the pressure build behind them. His throat started itching. Stumbling a little in the dark, not wanting to wake Wilson, House found his way to the kitchen. Dishes lay dirty in the sink. Wanting to avoid whatever it was he had stubbed his toe on walking behind the couch, he went in front this time, praying the coffee table was in a good mood. Wilson's face glittered in the light that shone from the crack opening of his bedroom door.

Blurry from lack of sleep that he sorely needed, House found himself sitting on the edge of the table, level with Wilson's face. A thought flitted through his mind that this made him ever so slightly creepy. There were tear stains on Wilson's cheeks, as well as a smear from leftovers he must have eaten after House had retired to his room. Though there was something haunting about his sleeping image, the peace over him that House had not seen in months, he looked ridiculous. The image was spoiled. House dipped his thumb into his glass of water, then gently wiped the stains from Wilson's face.

His eyes flickered open.

"House?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

"You looked ridiculous. Can't you eat like a grown-up?" House's voice was low, warm.

"Can't you act like one?"

House pulled a face. Wilson laughed sleepily. He swung his legs around to sit up, and House took up the space next to him.

"Y'know…if I _was_ gay, I wouldn't hesitate."

"House, _I'm_ not gay."

"So the tongue was just being friendly?"

"This isn't…it's not about sex. It's not because I want to fuck you. It's because I want…to be closer. Closer than we can be as just friends-"

House interrupted. "You sound like a woman."

"If you aren't gonna listen, go back to bed." House didn't move, so Wilson continued. "It's because this isn't enough anymore. Our friendship is…the strongest thing I've ever felt."

"Then why can't it stay that way?"

"Can you keep your mouth shut for two minutes? It's stronger than what I've had in any relationship with a woman, and it's lasted longer. My feelings for you," Wilson bowed his head, waiting for the laughter that would surely follow, "they transcend love. The way I want to express that…I want to be close. Physically close. In you, part of you."

House didn't move.

Wilson looked up. "You can talk now."

House's lips closed on his, soft and warm. He planted soft, small kisses on Wilson's lower lip, gently pulling it back between his own. Wilson slid his hands up House's back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his thin night shirt. Heat filled his mouth, probing into every corner and he kissed back with passion, relief flooding from him. House could taste the peppermint toothpaste in Wilson's mouth. Their bodies pressed together, House marvelled at the warmth, the security and love and Wilson's touch, the feel of his heart beating against his own. The warmth they were sharing. A hand wound its way down House's chest, making him quiver. It reached his groin, and House flinched, tensing in Wilson's arms.

Wilson pulled back and lent his forehead against House's. "Are you ok?"

"I don't think…" House looked down at his pants, and the hand that now hovered over his thigh. "I don't think I can. The Vicodin…" he muttered.

"That's-" Before Wilson had a chance to finish his sentence, House wriggled out of his embrace and limped to the kitchen.

Wilson had been sat on the couch in a daze, for how long he didn't know, before finally snapping back to reality and following House. He pulled two beers from the fridge and settled himself at the table, the chair opposite where House sat.

"The Vicodin wasn't a problem with Stacy."

House lowered his eyes to the table.

"If you weren't interested, what the hell did you do that for?"

"What you said. You were right. About us, about…all of it. I thought…I wanted that." House finished feebly.

"Clearly, you didn't."

"I wanted…to give you what you wanted. To try, for you. For everything you feel. I can't believe you feel all that."

"You don't?" Wilson met his eyes and held them.

"I…yeah, I do, but I'm fairly certain that loving you is easier than loving me."

"I don't care if it's easy or not."

"Well that's the difference. You can fight all the time for some false glimmer of hope, but I can't."

"You're perfectly good at giving the false hope, then pulling the rug out."

"I'm sorry."

Wilson watched House walk back to his room, hand rested on the small of his back for support. His anger dissipated when he realised something.

House had tried, for him. That meant more than anything they could have done together. For the time being at least, it was enough to content Wilson that he could keep his part in the game, that one day House might drop the "defense is the best form of attack" mechanism, and one of Wilson's pieces could make it to the other side.


End file.
